From the Desk of
by otahyoni
Summary: A collection of unrelated oneshots, vignettes, and drabbles featuring various characters. Based on the American version of the show.
1. The Confessional: Jim, Pam

**Author's Note:** Set between "The Client" and "Email Surveillance." Becomes AU at the end, which is why I'll never be invited to write for the show.

**

* * *

The Confessional**

The door slammed, and Katy was gone.

Jim stared at the door, rubbing his cheek. She had slapped him, but he supposed that's what he got for calling her "Pam."

Obviously, he was farther gone than he'd realized.

He dropped his hand and tried to be sorry Katy was gone. And he was, a little. She was great in her way—pretty and lively and optimistic. Friendly and _good_. Too good. There was no bite to her, no darker, cynical side. She thought sarcasm was mean.

He was sorry, but his overwhelming feeling was one of relief. More and more, he'd felt he was lying to her, perhaps in an attempt to lie to himself. But tonight put an end to the lies, and Jim found that he could look at her, look at himself, and admit what he'd been denying for months.

He didn't want Katy. Never had.

He'd never seen her angry before, never heard her shout. She'd thrown his pants at him, put her skirt on crooked, and told him that if he really wanted the frumpy receptionist, he was welcome to her.

"She's not frumpy," he'd shouted back, surprising himself.

Katy laughed. "You're pathetic. Isn't she engaged?"

He hadn't said anything. Didn't need to, at that point.

Jim looked down. He'd put his boxers on backwards. It wasn't quite midnight, and tomorrow was Monday. He sighed.

* * *

He was late to work the next morning, and Pam had already settled in, coffee mug steaming beside her keyboard. She looked up as he entered. 

"Are you all right?" she asked, frowning slightly in concern.

He leaned against the tall reception desk and looked at her, trying to decide if he should tell her or not.

"Katy and I had a fight last night," he finally said. He looked for the flash of annoyance that always flared in Pam's eyes when he mentioned Katy, and he wasn't disappointed. He liked to imagine it was jealousy, but knew Pam's dislike for Katy was probably personality based. Katy's perkiness chafed against Pam's reserved cynicism. "We broke up."

Pam's eyes widened, and the annoyance became something else. Before he could identify it, it was gone, smothered by sympathy. "Oh. I'm sorry." She reached up and laid a hand on his arm. "That sucks."

He gave her a small smile and shrugged. "I'm not as upset as I thought I'd be." He looked away before she saw something he didn't want her to. "Well, I'd better…work."

She removed her hand from his arm. "Yeah."

He walked the few feet to his desk.

* * *

Over the weekend, Dwight had somehow managed to increase his Annoyance Factor tenfold, and Jim found himself entertaining homicidal thoughts for the first time in his life. Instead of acting on them, he broke pencils into tiny pieces beneath his desk. 

Dwight returned—unfortunately—from wherever he had disappeared to twenty minutes ago and leaned across his desk. "So, Angela overheard you tell Pam that you broke up with the purse girl."

"What, was she hiding behind the filing cabinet?"

"So it's true."

Jim frowned at him. "That's none of your business. Or Angela's, for that matter."

Dwight stared at him. He hadn't blinked since he'd sat down. "Since she dumped you, can I have her number?"

Jim waited for some kind of emotional reaction, but all he felt was tired. He took it as a sign that he'd worked here too long; nothing Dwight said surprised him anymore.

He plucked another pencil from the cup on his desk and snapped it in half. Dwight didn't blink. "What makes you think she dumped me?"

Dwight raised his eyebrows. "You have seen her, right?" He frowned, as though suddenly realizing just how much of her Jim had probably seen.

Jim briefly considered giving him Katy's number. With the mood she was probably in today, her rejection of Dwight would be priceless. But he couldn't inflict Dwight upon her. She didn't deserve that. No one did.

He blinked twice at Dwight, slowly, then turned to his computer and opened a new email.

_Pam:_

_If I kill Dwight, will you testify that he deserved it?_

_Jim_

He heard Pam snort, and a few seconds later a new email popped onto his screen.

_Testify? I'll help. I wield a mean stapler._

Jim smiled.

* * *

The afternoon crawled by. Michael was preoccupied with befriending—torturing—the temp, and Dwight was teaching himself Klingon from a website, which meant he was no longer asking inappropriate questions about various aspects of Katy's anatomy, so Jim actually completed what little work he had in relative peace. He had run out of pencils by lunch, and instead channeled his hostility into vividly descriptive emails to Pam of the many ways to murder Dwight using only office supplies. 

At 4:45, no longer having the energy to look busy, he decided to rifle through the supply closet for more pencils and anything else that looked interesting. The supply closet was across from the break room, and had a sign taped to the door:

DOOR CANNOT BE OPENED

FROM THE INSIDE

REMEMBER TO PROP OPEN!

The latch had broken months ago, and Michael had yet to authorize the funds necessary to call a locksmith for repairs.

Jim opened the door and pulled off one of his shoes, which he used to prop the door. He hit the light switch and started scanning the shelves. He grabbed a blue Sharpie, a white-out pen, and a pointless plastic cube that dispensed mini-post-it notes. He found a small Steno notebook with green pages that he liked better than his blue one and added it to his pile. Nothing else caught his eye, and he frowned as he realized he hadn't seen any pencils. He worked his way through the shelves once more, but still came up empty-handed.

He retrieved his shoe and walked back to his desk to drop off his new supplies. Pam was just shrugging into her coat. Most of the others were gone.

"Hey," he said, walking up to her desk.

She pulled her hair from beneath her coat collar and looked at him, half a smile on her face. "Why are you still here? I thought you'd snuck out."

"Without saying good-bye?"

She smiled.

He couldn't help but smile back. "Can you help me? I can't find any pencils in the supply closet."

"I just restocked them last week."

He shrugged. "I didn't see any, but maybe my male refrigerator blindness has advanced to new territory."

She rolled her eyes and said, "Come on, you helpless baby. I'll find you some pencils. What'd you do with all yours anyway? You had three dozen of them."

"Twenty-seven, actually. And I broke them," he said, following her down the hall, "to keep myself from breaking Dwight."

She laughed and pulled the supply closet door open. "You," she said, pointing a finger into his chest, "stay here—" she pointed down, "—and keep the door open."

He saluted and held the door for her, then took half a step into the closet and leaned against the door, holding it open a few inches. Pam moved to the back wall and shifted some boxes of index cards.

"Huh," she said. "They were right here."

"There, see? I'm not helpless."

She moved down the shelf, picking up things and looking behind them. Jim scanned the shelves, and thought he saw a familiar box tucked into one of the uppermost corners.

"Are those them?" he asked, pointing.

Pam looked at him, then up toward the corner. "Where? I don't see them."

"You're not looking high enough," he said, taking a step forward. "Right th—"

The door clicked shut.

He and Pam exchanged a look.

"Oops," he said.

They dove for the door. Pam worked the handle while Jam banged against the door, hollering, "Hey! Let us out! We're stuck!"

"It won't open," Pam said, slamming the heel of her hand against the door.

"We knew that," Jim replied. "That's why there's a sign."

She turned on him, slapping his arm and shoulder.

"Ow, ow, hey!" he shouted.

"You had one job!" she said, pointing a finger in his face. She turned her panic on the door, beating her fists against it and screaming, "Help!"

Jim backed up a step, rubbing his arm. "I think everyone's gone," he said.

"No, no, no, they can't be!" she cried, "Help!"

"Hey, hey," he said, trying to sound soothing. He grabbed her shoulders and gently pulled her away from the door. "Let's think about this. Do you have your cell?"

"It's in my purse on my desk. Yours?"

He checked his pockets and swore. "I put it in my coat. Okay, does the janitor come tonight?"

She shook her head. "He switched to mornings for the winter so he could go to his kid's basketball games."

They thought for a moment.

"Won't Roy wonder where you are?" Jim asked, feeling the warmest toward Pam's fiancé he could ever remember.

Pam's face fell. "He's out of town this week. His Uncle Bert died."

"Oh, yeah." He had known that. He'd been excited about this week.

"And you broke up with Katy," she said. He didn't bother to correct her statement, liking that she assumed it this way. "So she won't wonder where _you_ are."

He shook his head.

She crossed her arms. "Okay. What now?"

Jim looked around the closet then back at her. "We could beat on the door some more…"

* * *

They sat on the floor, leaning against a shelf of file folders. Jim couldn't quite stretch his legs out in the narrow closet. Pam's legs were crossed at the ankle and lay on her coat to protect them from the cold tile floor. 

"At least we have light," he said.

"I'm starving," she moaned.

He pulled a half-empty box of Tic Tacs out of his pocket, and she snatched them out of his hand.

"You've been holding out on me!" she cried, smiling.

"I was saving them for an emergency."

"What time is it?"

He looked at his watch. "7:36."

"It's an emergency." She popped the lid open and poured some Tic Tacs into her hand. She offered them to him, and he took one with a nod of thanks. As she leaned back against the shelf, her shoulder brushed against his and stayed. He smiled at his lap.

"It's your turn," he reminded her.

She sucked on her Tic Tac in concentration, then said, "Pets, name and type, in chronological order."

"You comfortable? This could take a while."

She popped another Tic Tac in her mouth.

"All right. When I was eight, I had a guinea pig named Bugs."

"Bugs?"

"Bunny. I wanted a rabbit, but my mom said their cages were too big."

"You poor thing."

He bumped her with his shoulder and stole a Tic Tac. "I had an aquarium for several years, but I couldn't begin to tell you the names of all the fish I went through. When I was thirteen my mom bought me a puppy. A Beagle named Lunatic."

She twisted to look at him, pressing her shoulder more firmly against him. "That's an odd name."

He raised his eyebrows. "You didn't know this dog. He lived up to his name. After he got hit by a car—" She made a tiny _oh_ sound he thought was adorable. "—I got a lab mix we named Clarence. Had him for a long time. And my mom always had cats. I think she's on her fifth one. The dogs had to live outside." He paused. "Your turn."

"I never had any. My dad was allergic."

"Not even fish? A parakeet?"

"Nope."

"What about now?"

She shrugged. "Roy's allergic, too."

They were silent a moment, and she straightened, pulling away from him. His shoulder felt cold.

"Okay," he said, "if you could have any pet, what would you have?"

A smile slowly blossomed on her face. "An Irish Setter. Named Tara."

He took another Tic Tac. "Why an Irish Setter?"

"Did you ever read _Big Red _by Jim Kjelgaard? It's about an Irish Setter. I loved that book when I was younger."

He scoffed. "I didn't read books about _animals_. I read manly things like the Hardy Boys."

"No boy-and-his-dog books for Jim Halpert?"

He shook his head proudly, then said, "Well, maybe a few. But don't tell anyone."

She pulled herself onto her knees and leaned forward slightly to study his face. "Admit it," she said, "_Where the Red Fern Grows _made you cry like a girl."

"Never."

She grinned. "It did! You cried like a girl!"

He tickled her. She squealed and fell backwards to the floor with a thump, then scooted to the opposite wall.

"You stay over there," she said, her smile at odds with her stern tone.

They smiled at each for a while, until Pam's face fell into a contemplative expression, and she looked away. Jim leaned his head back against the shelf, banging it lightly, wondering if God was laughing at him.

"So," Pam said, "do you want to play pictionary?"

* * *

Pam yawned again, and her eyelids drooped. 

"Come here," Jim said, scooting across the paper-strewn floor— they'd gone through an entire legal pad worth of pictionary—to sit beside her. He put and arm behind her shoulders and pulled her against him. She stiffened for a half a second, but then relaxed, shifting closer to him and turning her face into his shoulder. "It's not even eleven o'clock yet," he said.

"So?" she mumbled. "Close enough. I'm totally allowed to sleep."

"But who will entertain me? I can't guess my own pictionary drawings."

"No one can guess your pictionary drawings. You're terrible." She shifted and repositioned her arms. "Mmm, scoot down. This isn't comfy."

"You're just jealous because you lost." He scrunched down.

"No, that's worse." She sat up, frowning at him.

"What?" he asked. "You don't want to sleep anyway."

"Oh, yes, I do."

"If you fall asleep, I'll draw on your face with a Sharpie," he threatened.

"If you draw on my face," she said, leaning forward, "I'll slap you until you can't remember your name."

He raised his hands in a placating gesture. "All right, all right. I've been slapped around twice in the last twenty-four hours. I'm not looking for another go."

Pam straightened, looking more awake. "She slapped you?"

His eyes flicked away from her face and he inwardly called himself every name he could think of.

"What you'd do?" Pam's mouth hung slightly open, and in the dim light from the closet's single bulb, he couldn't tell if she was appalled or amused. He looked down.

"You have to tell me now," she said, ducking her head to try to see his face. "Spill it. And I'll know if you're lying."

He met her gaze, and her voice softened. "Come on," she said, touching his shoulder with her fingertips. "Please tell me."

He looked at her for a moment, at the real concern in her eyes. He sighed. "I forgot her name."

Her brow furrowed. "How could you—are you blushing?"

He looked away.

"Oh!" she said. "_Oh._" She started laughing.

Jim inched away, knowing what question would come next, knowing he couldn't lie to her, knowing that now, while he was trapped in a closet with nowhere to flee, was the worst possible time to make this sort of confession. He stared at the back wall.

Pam calmed down enough to ask, "What did you call her?"

He didn't answer.

"Jim? What did you—"

He looked at his lap and swallowed.

"Oh, God," she said quietly. She sat back. "Oh…God."

He glanced up. She was staring at him, but he couldn't read her expression. He stood and moved the last few steps to the back of the closet. He glanced at her again. She was breathing heavily, staring blankly at the floor, her forehead wrinkled in shock and confusion.

Jim lay on his back, knees bent, and threw an arm over his eyes, wanting nothing more than for morning to come.

* * *

He wasn't sure how much time had passed—it couldn't have been more than half an hour—when he heard her move. He didn't react until her knees bumped into his side. He pulled his arm away from his face and let it drop to the floor. 

She looked down at him, twisting the hem of her shirt in both hands. "Jim, I—"

"No, look," he said, propping himself up on his elbows. "I'm sorry I said anything. I never intended to." She looked slightly hurt, but he barreled on. "I never wanted to horn in on your life and mess things up. I've been thinking, and it might be best if when we get out of here tomorrow, I give Michael my notice. That way you won't have to freak out about things and—"

"Stop talking," she said. She sounded angry, and he obeyed. She looked at the door, then at her knees. "Can…can we just…?"

"Yeah," he said, dropping back to the floor. "No problem." He folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes. He felt a pang of guilt, but shoved it beneath his own anger. They couldn't just go back. Not now. And maybe if he pushed her away, it wouldn't hurt as badly when he left.

He heard her shift again, and silently willed her to the other side of the closet, but her knees didn't leave his side. He refused to open his eyes, however, and instead concentrated on keeping his breathing slow and steady.

He jumped when her fingertips touched his forehead, and his eyes snapped open. She brushed his hair to the side of his face.

"Don't leave," she said quietly.

"No," he answered.

She continued to run her fingers across his forehead, trailing them down the side of his face, and her eyes wandered over his features. He took a deep breath and her eyes came back to his.

"I want to kiss you," he said.

She pulled her hand away and looked at his stomach, biting her lip.

Then she lifted her gaze and said, "Okay."

* * *

Oscar's mechanical pencil was out of lead. He sighed and pushed his chair back. He hated the supply closet. It would probably take him twenty minutes to find more lead, as the closet didn't seem to follow any organizational system he was familiar with. 

On the other hand, he didn't have a whole lot else to do.

He opened the door and stopped, staring dumbly into the closet.

Jim and Pam lay on the floor, Pam's head on Jim's chest, her arm thrown around his waist, his arm angling across her back.

Pam moaned a little and lifted her head. She blinked at Oscar. Oscar blinked back.

She shook Jim. "Hey," she said softly, "We've been rescued."

Jim grunted and sat up halfway in a sudden jerk. He blinked at Oscar as well, then grinned. "Our knight in shining armor. Boy, are we glad to see you." He clambered to his feet and helped Pam up.

"What happened?" Oscar asked, still standing in the doorway.

"We got locked in last night," Pam said. She bent and picked up her coat, which Jim had been using for a pillow. "Right at five, and no one heard us yelling."

Oscar stared at her. She looked different, and it took him a few seconds to realize he'd never seen her hair down before. "Why were you in the closet at five?" he asked.

Jim snapped his fingers. "Pencils! I needed pencils." He reached up and pulled a box out of the corner. He shook it with satisfaction and grinned at Pam. She grinned back. Oscar watched them in confusion, his head moving back and forth.

Jim checked his watch. "Dude, it's only 7:30. What are you doing here?"

"It's quiet," Oscar said. "And I like to hide Angela's planner."

Jim clapped him on the back, then looked at Pam. "I don't know about you, but I'm taking a sick day. Hungry?"

She nodded.

"Good. Pancakes are on me."

They walked down the hallway, laughing and smiling. Oscar stared at them until they turned the corner. He could have sworn Jim's shirt was buttoned wrong.

He looked down at the pencil in his hand and shrugged. It was early, and he hadn't had his coffee; maybe he was just imagining things.

Fin.


	2. Waking Up: Pam

**Author's Note: **Set during "Christmas Party."

**

* * *

Waking Up**

"Yeah," Pam said, lifting the teapot. "I think I made the right choice."

The cameraman lifted his head and winked. She smiled, slightly confused, but he gave her a warm grin and flicked his hand, shooing her out of the room. She stood up, holding the teapot to her chest, and stepped through the door.

"Hey, there you are," Roy said, coming up on her left side. "What's that?"

"My Secret Santa gift from Jim," Pam said, holding it out for him to see. "Now I can have tea at my desk." The smile on her face faded at his expression.

"Where's the iPod?" he asked, frowning.

"I, um, traded it to Dwight. For the teapot." She pulled her gift back against her chest, wrapping her arms around it protectively.

Roy's eyes narrowed. "Well, that was stupid."

She gaped at him, groping for a scathing argument, waiting for the anger. But all she felt was tired. Tired of eggshells. Tired of trying to please him. Tired of his strange swings from caring and protective to dismissive and neglectful. "I wanted it," she said flatly.

"It's a teapot."

She sighed. "I know. I'm sorry." Fighting took energy, energy she didn't have anymore.

"Well, don't expect me to buy you an iPod now. I already told you; it'd ruin the surprise." He turned and walked off, no doubt to find Darryl and discuss more fantasy football strategies. Pam wondered if he'd still buy her a sweater even though he'd told her about that, too. It was hard to care at the moment.

She walked back to her desk and set the teapot on her chair, tracing the spout with her finger and smiling. She straightened and decided it was time for vodka.

The conference room door was closed most of the way, which she found slightly odd. Remembering Michael's desire that people make out in closets, she peeped through the crack and placed her hand on the door. She could hear a man's voice, but couldn't make out the words. She was afraid of what she'd walk in on; all she wanted was extremely spiked punch.

She was about to say, "Hello?" when she heard Roy say, "Just stay away from her, all right? I've had enough of you following her around like a little lost puppy."

"Look, it's not what you—" Jim's voice.

Pam caught her breath and pulled her hand away from the door.

"You're telling me you _don't_ want to sleep with her?" Roy asked, his tone incredulous.

For the second time that night, Pam waited for the outrage, the anger, but the exhaustion within her merely grew.

After a brief silence, Roy said, "That's what I thought."

Pam heard a heavy footstep and turned, walking as quickly as she could toward Phyllis a few feet away. She introduced herself to Phyllis' boyfriend as Roy came out of the conference room. Bob Vance was listing all the refrigeration units he currently carried when Jim emerged a long moment later, a glass of punch in his hand.

Pam smiled at him. He gave her a small smile in return.

Later, as Pam drove a snoring Roy home from Poor Richard's, she glanced down at the teapot on the seat beside her. She remembered Jim's silence, and suddenly she didn't feel so tired.


	3. Five Floors: Jim, Pam

Set during/immediately after "The Secret."

**

* * *

**

Five Floors

The elevator doors slid closed, and Jim stared at the lit numbers as they slowly blinked their way toward the lobby floor. Dunder Mifflin was on the fifth floor, and the elevator ride was generally a short one.

Today, however, it was interminably long.

Pam stood next to him, looking at her shoes. She lifted her head to look at him, and he quickly returned his gaze to the numbers. The four glowed, blinked out, and the three lit up. He glanced at her, and she quickly looked down at her shoes.

He'd hoped everything would be fine, that they'd be able to pick up where they left off and just forget this day, but the awkwardness now was stifling. He'd ruined it. He'd ruined everything.

He wanted to tell her that he liked her hair down, that she should wear it like that more often. He wanted to ask her if _he _could be a bridesmaid, if only to make her smile. He wanted to tell her that Roy wasn't right for her, that just because they'd been together so long didn't mean they had to continue being together. He wanted to tell her that he had a box under his bed filled with many more insignificant objects like the ones he'd put in her teapot, each with a precious story of its own. That he had been attracted to Katy because she looked like her. That whenever she talked about her wedding it made him flinch, the pain almost physical.

He wanted to tell her other things, random things, things he desperately wanted her to know. He wanted to tell her about the time he broke his arm rollerblading in seventh grade and missed basketball tryouts. About the years after his dad left. About the woman he'd seen in the supermarket yesterday with hair so long it hung out of the bottom of her coat like a tail.

But mostly, he wanted to tell her that he had lied when he'd said he was completely over her. That the truth was the exact opposite.

But he didn't. It was already ruined.

* * *

Pam stared at her shoes, trying to work up the courage to say something in the few seconds it would take the elevator to complete its short journey.

The instant Jim had told her he used to have a crush on her, she realized she'd known, known it in that intuitive, subconscious way that one knew things without knowing them. And when he'd said it was over, done with, in the past, the disappointment had surprised her with its strength, momentarily taking her over until she glanced at her left hand, at the ring on her finger, and the guilt chased it away.

But now, after Michael's slip, the movement of the elevator seemed more disorienting than usual, and she looked up at Jim, wondering if he felt it too. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and she quickly dropped her face, staring at her shoes and trying not to blush, all the things she wanted to say swirling inside her.

She wanted to tell him that his high school picture lay at the bottom of her jewelry box, where she could discreetly look at it every morning while digging for a pair of earrings. She wanted to tell him that she always noticed when he defended her, when he punished Dwight or Michael in his own mischievous way for being mean to her. That she lied when she told the cameramen he was like her brother. That sometimes she didn't want to marry Roy.

Strangely, she also wanted to tell him about her painting that had taken first place in a high school art contest. About holding her grandfather's hand when he died. About the little boy who lived across the street and brought her gifts: dandelions, cicada shells, specially shaped or colored rocks.

But mostly, she wanted to tell him that she knew, knew how he felt. That it made her happy in way she hadn't been in years, and that she didn't know what that meant.

But she didn't. She didn't know how.

* * *

The elevator chimed, and the doors opened.

Fin.

**

* * *

Author's Note: This ficlet is dedicated to Kathy, who told me to write more fanfiction. Her pleas have not fallen upon deaf ears.**

Also, the line about Pam always noticing when Jim defends her was stolen (with permission) from **dutchrub**'s story "The Wedding." Check it out.


	4. On the Surface: Pam

**Setting:** Post -"The Secret"

**

* * *

**

**On the Surface**

Pam stared at the contents of her closet. Demure, pastel. Button-up shirts, knee-length skirts, practical shoes. Her eyes moved from item to item, mentally discarding each one. None of it worked. None of it was what she needed.

She didn't know what she needed.

Roy appeared in the bedroom doorway, munching a piece of toast. He frowned at her standing in the closet entrance in her underwear. "What are you doing?" he asked, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth. "We're going to be late."

"I don't know what to wear," she replied.

Roy rolled his eyes, his meaning clear: _Women._ He took another bite of toast and said, "Well, hurry up. You've got ten minutes."

As his back disappeared down the hallway, Pam turned back to her clothes. She'd worn every outfit, every possible top-bottom combination dozens of times. And none of them were right. She needed something that made her feel strong. Something that made her feel capable and assertive. Something that announced to the world that she was a woman who knew what she wanted.

Because she wasn't. And she desperately needed to be.

But nothing she owned could do that for her.

She selected the first shirt and skirt her hands fell on, pulling them on slowly, ritually, trying to instill some magic into the cloth. She slipped the last botton through its hole and smoothed the shirt against her stomach, letting her hands continue down to her skirt, sliding against her thighs. The silk lining was cool against her skin, and a small shiver worked its way up her spine.

She stared at herself in the mirror. She didn't look strong or capable or assertive. She looked like Pam.

She picked up a barrette from her dresser and placed it between her teeth, her hands moving automatically to pull her hair back. Halfway through the action, she stopped. Her eyes found the small, ceramic ash tray she used to hold her barrettes and the bobby pins peeking out from under them. She dropped her hair, pulling the barrette from her mouth with one hand and reaching for her brush with the other. She could change her hair. She could do something bold, something new, something diff–

"Pam!" Roy bellowed. "If you're not in the truck in thirty seconds, I'm leaving you!"

She froze.

She could let him go. She had her own car; she could drive herself. She could stay here and do her hair. She could change—

"Pam!"

She pulled her hair back and fastened the barrette around it, the tiny snap audible evidence of her resignation.

She stared at herself in the mirror for another second, her fingertips lightly resting on the top of the dresser.

On the surface, everything looked exactly the same. Her clothes, her hair. Her job. She would walk into the doors of Dunder Mifflin, sit in the same chair, answer the same phone calls with the same words. Jim would look as he always looked, smile and talk with her as he always did. Everything would look and feel the same.

But underneath, she knew, everything was completely different.

And she had a decision to make.

She walked out of the bedroom and met Roy's impatient gaze.

"I'm ready," she said, wishing it were true.

End.


	5. A Dish Served Cold: Dwight

**A Dish Served Cold**

"I've had enough," Dwight told the camera. "Jim super-glued everything in my desk drawers. He thinks he's funny, but his actions are a blatant show of disrespect to his superiors. _And_ destruction of company property." Dwight paused, his mouth tight. "Michael refuses to punish him, so I've had to take matters into my own hands. Today I take my revenge. Today is my Independence Day."

There was a brief pause as the cameraman blinked at him.

Dwight shifted in his chair. "That is all." He stood and walked back to his desk.

* * *

Pam looked up from her computer screen as Jim came around the reception counter and perched on her desk. He slid a floppy disk from his pocket and held it up. The label read TOP SECRET: DWIGHT SCHRUTE. 

Smiling, she asked, "Where'd you get that?"

"It's not the 'where' that's important," he said, leaning toward her. "It's the 'what.'" He waved the disk and grinned. "_This_…is Dwight's novel."

Pam gaped at him for half a second before snatching the disk and shoving it into her computer. "Have you read it?" she asked, the prospect of a boring day disappearing as quickly as the computer could read the disk. The folder showed one file, titled BIRTH OF A HERO. Pam giggled.

"The first few pages," Jim answered, turning so he could see her screen. "It's even better than Michael's screenplay."

Pam opened the file and began to read. After three sentences she said, "Brilliant, Halpert. Absolutely brilliant. The question is—" She smiled up at him. "—what do we do with it?"

* * *

Dwight glanced at Jim out of the corner of his eye every few seconds, biding his time. Eventually Jim would have to use the restroom, and when that moment came, Dwight would be ready. As the hot chick in _The Mummy _said, "Patience is a virtue." 

Dwight was a paragon of patience.

Jim stood, stretching, and Dwight kept his body language and expression casual. He watched as Jim moved off toward the break room, slowly turning his head to mark the other salesman's progress. As soon as the break room door shut behind Jim, Dwight retrieved the trash bag he had hidden in his desk earlier. Then he jumped out of his chair and moved to Jim's desk.

Working quickly, he shoved every loose item on Jim's desk into the trash bag. When all that was left was the lamp, computer, and phone, Dwight dropped to his knees and wriggled under the desk. He unplugged the lamp.

"Dwight, what are you doing?"

Pam's sharp question startled him, and he hit his head on the desk. He backed out from under it, stood up, and glared at her. She couldn't stop him. She couldn't stand in the way of justice.

He shoved the lamp into his sack as well. The contents of the drawers followed.

Snickering, Dwight shoved the bag back under his desk and opened a spreadsheet. While he waited for Jim to return, he highlighted the column titled "Dwight's Monthly Sales" in yellow, then made all the numbers 16-point font and bold. He leaned back in his chair to make sure they were legible from a distance and nodded in satisfaction.

He heard someone approaching and leaned toward his screen, looking engrossed. He struggled to keep the smirk off his face as the footsteps paused, thankful once more for his deputy sheriff training. He should really consider a career in undercover law enforcement. It was obvious he was a natural.

Jim's chair creaked slightly as he sat, and Dwight risked a glance his direction, then frowned.

His rival seemed neither upset nor confused at his sudden lack of possessions. Instead, Jim merely pulled his keyboard toward himself and began typing. Dwight opened his mouth to make an innocent comment, but stopped as he noticed Pam coming over.

"Hey, Jim," she said. "I like your new decorating scheme."

"Yeah?" he said, swiveling in his chair as he admired his empty desk. "Me, too. It's very…freeing. Not as claustrophobic or distracting. I really think I'll be able to accomplish a lot. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if my sales double."

Pam smiled and went back to her desk. Jim met Dwight's eyes, grinned, and turned to his computer.

Dwight kicked the bag beneath his desk, then wished he hadn't as his toe connected with the base of the lamp.

He wasn't done yet. No, Dwight Schrute's revenge had only just begun.

* * *

Dwight entered the kitchen a few moments later to see Phyllis, Stanley, and Oscar huddled around the refrigerator, laughing. When they saw him, they backed away, attempting to smother their laughs. 

"What is it?" Dwight asked, smiling. "Did Michael post a joke?" He stepped forward to read the paper stuck to the fridge door with a magnet.

_Birth of a Hero_

_by_

The author's name had been sloppily obscured with white-out, so that bits of letters were still visible. But Dwight didn't need the letter fragments to know what name had been there. His eyes scanned the rest of the page. It was the first page of his novel, the introduction to his hero.

And he knew who had put it there.

He ripped the page off the fridge and turned to face the three chuckling people behind him. He held up the violated piece of his life's work. "This is a private document. You had no right to read it."

"It was on the fridge," Phyllis said. "We thought it was joke."

"It's a serious piece of literary work," Dwight said. "But I wouldn't expect you to understand that."

He turned and stomped back to his desk. Jim wasn't there, but that just gave Dwight the opportunity to fulfill more of his revenge. A double dose of revenge, now. Jim had stumbled into sacred territory, and Dwight wasn't going to let him get away with it.

* * *

Jim cleared his throat and held up a piece of paper. 

"_Birth of a Hero_, by Dwight K. Schrute. Chapter One.

"_Schwight Drute was a beet farmer, the best in all the land. His entire family had been killed in a devastating plague three years before. Schwight alone survived, thanks to his superior immune system, and continued to work the family farm alone. During the day he was a happy—and exceptional—beet farmer, but at night the memories of his dead and decaying family haunted him, their faces deformed by hideous lesions as they wailed in pain. _

"_Schwight led a simple life, but all that was about to change. Forever._"

He lowered the page and grinned at the camera, then turned to Pam, who sat next to him, a stack of paper in her lap. He turned back to the camera and said, "The name is my favorite part. It's so subtle. I doubt anyone will ever pick up on it."

Pam lifted her pages. "But this is my favorite scene." She handed Jim half the stack and nodded for him to begin.

"_Schwight faced his old master, his magical fighting staff held firmly in his hands._" Jim pitched his voice into a squeaky falsetto. "'_I always knew it would come to this,' Schwight said. 'Be warned: you have no power here. This land is under my protection now._'"

Pam ground out her lines through clenched teeth. "'_Ah, my dear Drute, but you forget that I trained you. I know your weaknesses. And I will exploit them._'"

"'_Fitting, is it not,_'" said Jim in his Schwight voice, "'_that we meet again for the last time in the very building in which you taught me the ancient art of SoDuNah?' Schwight replied, spinning his magical staff menacingly and flexing his flawless biceps— _"

Pam snorted, bending over to bury her face in her manuscript pages.

With a glance to her and a smile, Jim continued. "'_But I grow weary of your banter. Come, let us settle this as men._' And then," Jim said, holding up his pages and speaking in his normal voice, "there's a nineteen page fight. Nineteen glorious pages of ridiculously detailed fighting moves unique to the ancient art of SoDuNah." He stretched the last syllable, and Pam collapsed in giggles.

* * *

Jim and Pam left the conference room, laughing and holding stacks of paper. Dwight quickly picked up his phone and began speaking into it. 

"Yes, yes, it's excellent quality paper. How many boxes can I put you down for?"

Jim dropped into his chair, stowing the documents in one of his now-empty drawers. Dwight muttered, "Hmms" and "uh huhs" while he watched Jim wiggle his mouse to bring his screen back to life. Dwight smiled as the little box popped up, announcing the machine was locked by the administrator. A blinking cursor asked for a password.

Dwight sniggered into the phone, then cleared his throat and said, "No, of course. I understand. You won't be disappointed." He'd password-protected Jim's whole computer, and he knew the password was something Jim would never be able to guess. He'd originally picked "ladysnowblood," because Yuki's quest for revenge mirrored his own, though on a much grander scale—Dwight's samurai sword was for decorative purposes only.

But then he'd realized that Jim would never get the beauty of that allusion and had instead made the password "you'refired."

It was a warning. A warning Dwight hoped Jim wouldn't heed. Because someday Dwight would hold Jim's job in his hands, and that would be red-letter day. The day Jim Halpert was no longer an employee of Dunder Mifflin. The day Dwight was able to fire Jim, to see the look on his face when he realized he had been totally crushed by his superior.

But until then, warnings would have to suffice.

Jim blinked at the screen for a moment, then typed something into the password box and hit enter. Jim's desktop appeared.

Dwight dropped his phone.

* * *

Dwight held up the first page of his novel for the camera. 

"The disrespect evident in this act appalls me. Disrespect not only to me, but to the importance of literariness. For example, in my novel, titled _Birth of a Hero_, I address the issues of discipline—" He ticked the items off on his other hand. "—destiny, balance, both in life and in combat, monster rape, and the ethical complications of genocide. It's a very serious work. I've spent hours in my home practicing the martial arts moves described here. They work."

Dwight lifted another stack of papers from his lap. They were crumpled and torn. "Jim has been posting selected passages of my novel around the office, often with comments. In the kitchen, by the copier, in the men's room _and _the women's restroom. It's disgra—" Dwight's eyes flicked past the camera man, focusing on movement outside the conference room window. He jumped up and stormed into the main office. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Pam handed a bound stack of paper to Phyllis, then turned to look at Dwight. "I'm passing out the new corporate directory. Yours is on your desk." She nodded with her head toward the booklet lying next to his keyboard, and moved to Stanley, who accepted his own booklet with a small smile.

Dwight squinted at his directory. "Mine's skinnier than theirs."

"I didn't remember to make them double-sided until I got to yours," Pam said.

Jim came out of the kitchen and stopped at Pam's side. "Hey, are those our new directories?"

"Yep," she said, handing him one. "Fresh off the binding machine."

"Great," Jim said, moving to his chair. He dropped into it and threw his feet up onto his empty desk surface, then opened his directory and began reading.

With one last suspicious look at Pam, who was handing Creed a directory, Dwight eased into his chair. He stared at Jim for a moment, who raptly turned pages of his directory, and then said, "Why are you reading that? I've never seen you use your old one."

Jim glanced up briefly, returning his gaze to the pages before him. "I took it home and read it there. Cover to cover. Committed it to memory."

Dwight blinked. He'd never thought about doing that. He mulled the idea over, and decided it had definite merit. What if he were stranded somewhere and needed to call the corporate HR office to request emergency time off? What if Michael and Jan became embroiled in a _crime passionel_ and Dwight discovered their bodies? He wouldn't want to have to deal with a cranky secretary when he called Jan's boss from the crime scene.

Looking around the office, he saw that everyone had put their work on hold to read their new directory. Phyllis giggled, and Dwight glared at her. So she thought she was getting a leg up on Dwight K. Schrute, did she?

Dwight picked up his directory, opened it, and read the first entry.

_Applebaum, John. Customer Service. New York. Ext: 3342 Direct line: 212-454-3342_

Dwight repeated this over and over under his breath. He'd be the first one to have the entire thing memorized.

Personal excellence in the workplace came first. Revenge could wait.

* * *

"Here," Pam said, handing the documentary interviewer a small stack of spiral-bound paper. "Here areyour team'scomplimentary copies of Dwight's novel. But if he asks, they're directories, and you need them for official documentary purposes. All right?"

The interviewer nodded, grinning.

Pamgrinned back and returned to her desk and her own copy of Dwight's literary achievement, the margins already filled with outrageous illustrations.

* * *

End.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to **okuninushii** for the idea of "Schwight" facing down his old mentor. 


	6. Confrontation in Yellow: Pam, Jim

Set post-"Boys and Girls"

**

* * *

**

Confrontation in Yellow

Jim was waiting at her car.

Pam slowed her walk, stretching out the seconds before she had to speak to him. She could tell by his face that he wanted to continue the argument they'd had earlier in the kitchen. She'd dawdled in the office, making sure she was the last to leave, making sure he'd be gone by the time she got out here. As usual, he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. The only cars left in the lot were hers and his.

"Hi," she said quietly, stopping a few feet away.

He was leaning against the driver's side door, his arms crossed like a bodyguard, as though physically preventing her from escaping. She wondered if his pose was conscious, if he truly thought she'd run away.

"Hey," he said. He stared at her for a moment, and she clasped her purse in front of her with both hands to keep from fidgeting. She'd parked under one of the streetlamps, and it cast a yellow glow over the area. Over Jim, her car, the snow and ice clinging to the pavement. She'd always liked yellow light, felt it was warmer than white, that it enriched colors instead of bleaching them, but right now it made everything look sickly and somehow sinister.

Jim straightened and let his arms fall to his sides. Her car rocked slightly at the shift in weight. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier," he said, giving her a small smile. "I just really think you shouldn't dismiss this internship thing so easily."

Pam's hands tightened around her purse strap as she looked over at the chain link fence just past the front of her car. The light from the streetlamp threw the fence's shadow across the snow on the other side, turning it into a rippling tiled floor. "It's not a big deal," she said, letting her eyes linger on the diamond-patterned snow. It was easier than looking at Jim.

"Yes, it is."

The conviction in his voice brought her head around.

"This could be it, Pam. This could be your big opportunity. You can't just throw it away."

He was pleading with her. He was pleading, and it was working. She could feel her resolve, her resignation, start to waver, so she shored it up the only way she could: with anger.

"You're one to talk!" she snapped.

He flinched. "What?"

"That job! That great job last year that you could have had. You just ignored it." One of her hands let go of her purse, the better to make a fist at her side.

"That was different," he said, his voice hard.

"Yeah? How?"

It was his turn to look away. "It just was."

"_How?_" she pressed. "How is it different?"

He looked over her head for a second before meeting her gaze again. "Do you want it?"

"What?" she asked, rocking backward.

"The internship. Do you want it?"

She stared at him.

"You want to know how my situation was different? I didn't want it. Do you want this?"

She nodded, caught herself, shook her head. Then she shrugged. "It'd be cool, but—"

"Do you want it?" Jim snapped, biting off each word.

The anger swelled within her again. "Stop talking to me like I'm a child!"

He grabbed her arm, shaking her a little, and nearly shouted in her face, "_Do you want it?_"

"_Yes!_" she cried, ripping her arm from his grasp. "Yes, I want it! But I can't have it, all right? We can't have everything we want."

An emotion she couldn't identify flitted across his face before it went blank.

Pam raised a hand to her forehead, pressing her fingers and thumb into her temples. "It doesn't matter," she said. She dropped her hand and looked up at him. "Can I go home now?" She gestured at her car and took a step forward, but Jim pressed his back against the door.

"No. You can't do this, Pam." His voice was calm again, but the pleading was gone. This was a command.

She glared at him. "Move."

"You can't stay here for the rest of your life."

She wasn't sure when she'd started shaking, but now she couldn't stop. "What gives you the right to tell me what to do with my life?"

"Nothing," he snapped. "You're right. I don't have the right. But neither does Roy."

She took a step back, and his face softened as he looked at her. She could only imagine what expression she wore.

"Look," he said, leaning forward but not losing contact with the car, "I just want what's best for you. You're not happy here, I don't care what you say."

And then he just looked at her, silently pleading, and she could feel herself weakening again. After a long second his face hardened, and she realized she was shaking her head. She stopped and said, "Roy's right. It's not practical. All that time—"

"Roy!" Jim spit the name like a cuss word. "If you think Roy's thinking about anyone other than himself in this…. All he wants is his woman in the kitchen, making him dinner and letting him—"

She slapped him. And then she covered the lower half of her face with her hands and stared at him, at what she'd done.

The force of the blow had snapped Jim's head to the side, and his cheek was already turning red. He blinked several times before bringing his face back to her. She could see his eyes shimmering in the yellow light from the streetlamp and realized just how hard she'd hit him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered through her hands. She wasn't sure if he'd heard her or not, but he seemed to understand.

"No, I totally deserved that. I'm…I…" He moved away from her car, one of his hands coming up to rub his cheek. He swallowed and backed a couple steps away from her. "I'm sorry. I never should have…I had no right to say that."

She pulled her hands away from her face. "I've never hit anyone before."

He tried to smile. "You should do it more often. You're good at it."

She laughed weakly. It trailed off, swallowed by the night, and they stood in the silence, not quite able to look at each other.

"I'm scared," Pam said. She didn't look up, didn't look at him, but she heard the rustle of his coat as his hand dropped back to his side, and when his voice came it was quiet.

"I know."

She sniffed, suddenly on the verge of tears. Blinking rapidly, she pushed them back, then looked up and forced a grin and a cheerful tone. "Maybe next year, you know? After the wedding, when things have calmed down."

"Yeah," he said, looking over her shoulder. "Maybe next year."

There was something final about the way he said it, and it kindled a strange urge within her to comfort him. But she quelled it, gripping her purse in both hands again and biting the inside of her cheek.

"You should probably get home," he said, snapping his gaze back down to hers.

"Yeah." She shifted her weight.

"I'm really sorry I—"

"No, I'm sorry that—"

They stopped, and Pam pulled her keys from her coat pocket. Jim backed up a few more steps.

"Goodnight," she said.

He nodded, continuing to back away, though he watched her as she climbed into her car, started the engine, and backed out of her space. As she pulled out of the parking lot, she could still see him in the rearview mirror, watching her.

Ten minutes later she parked her car in her driveway and shut off the engine. Then she leaned her head on the steering wheel and cried, mourning once and for all the things she would never have.

**

* * *

Author's Note:** Please forgive the hideous title. Titling is not my strong point. 


	7. Ignoring Warning Labels: Ryan, Kelly

**Author's Note: **As I recall, I owe Ryan a fic. Not sure if this makes up for his previous character assassination (see Kelly chapter), but it's a start.

**

* * *

**

**Ignoring Warning Labels **

**

* * *

**DOCUMENTARY: _The Office_

LOCATION: Dunder Mifflin Paper Company  
Scranton, Pennsylvania

TRANSCRIPT: Employee Interviews

**Friday, April 21, 2006**

**9:37am**

RYAN HOWARD: Kelly should come with a warning label. "Do not interact with product while intoxicated." Tattooed right on her forehead. Then maybe I wouldn't be in this mess.

**10:05am**

KELLY KAPOOR: Warning label? Yeah, guys should _totally _have warning labels. Like, "Against Marriage—Proceed with Caution," something like that. You know, on my curling iron, there's a warning to "Never Use While Sleeping." How totally dumb is that? I mean, if you're awake, then you're obviously not sleeping. And if you're sleeping, like a sleepwalker or something, and you're dreaming that it's time to curl your hair, then you don't _know _you're asleep. It's a completely useless warning. I mean, _duh_.

**12:14pm**

RYAN HOWARD: Do you guys mind if I just hang out in here for lunch? I saw Kelly go in the break room, and if she's adopted the same technique as yesterday, she's perched on the counter, waiting for me to walk through the door so she can swoop down on me like a hawk. Or a vulture.

Hmm? No, I don't hate her, I just…she's a little crazy. I mean, everyone here is crazy, but her crazy is now directed toward me. This is just self-preservation.

I _have _told her I'm not interested. I mean, I was interested, until I knew how crazy she was, but she won't listen. Because, well, crazy. I guess she thinks I'm playing hard to get or something.

Oh, no. She's coming. Don't let her know I'm here.

_(subject hides behind door)_

**12:26pm**

KELLY KAPOOR: Have you guys seen Ryan? No? Oh. I just thought maybe…he hasn't come into the break room to get his lunch yet. I thought he might be hungry.

Okay, well, if you see him, tell him his tuna is going off, all right? It smells funny.

What? Of course he likes me. I mean, I think he does. He kissed me, right? That's definitely a sign of affection. I think he's just scared of commitment, which is completely silly. I mean, yes, I want to get married and have kids someday, preferably soon. But not right this very minute.

Unless he wants to. Did he tell you he wants to?

Oh.

Well, that's—that's fine. I mean, it's not like I wanted to marry _him _or anything. I barely know him. He was just a fling, you know? Not even a fling. I mean, ignoring me at a bar and then trying to make out with me once he's good and buzzed is hardly a fling. That's like…that's like…I don't even think there's a word for that. Is there? Do you know what it is? Maybe I should make one up.

Anyway. If you see him, let me know, 'kay?

**12:30pm**

RYAN HOWARD: Thanks. See? Crazy.

-------------------------------------------------------

**Monday, April 24, 2006**

**8:02am**

KELLY KAPOOR: Oh, my God! Ryan totally called me on Saturday! It was kinda late, like eleven, but he invited me over to his place!

Okay, so I didn't get over till almost midnight, because I was already in my pajamas and I wanted to try this new eye shadow I'd bought so I could do my eyes up all smoky like Keira Knightley's—did you see her at the Oscars? She is _so _beautiful—but the first time I put it on I _totally _overdid it and looked like a slut, so I had to take it all off and start over and…anyway, so by the time I got there, it was a full-blown party. Ryan was totally smashed. He is _such _a cute drunk.

Hmm? Oh. Well, we danced a little, and I met this totally weird guy named Steve who was useless for just about everything but fetching me beers. And then Ryan and I danced some more, and he's really not a very good dancer, but maybe that's just because he was drunk. And then later, once everyone had left we, well…I'm not telling you that part.

No! No, not, like, _all _the way. He kind of, well, passed out. But…oh, God. I can't believe I told you all this. Swear to me this won't be in the movie thing. Swear? Okay.

**8:23am**

RYAN HOWARD: Kill me now. Please.

I was drunk. That's my only defense. I was having a party, and I got drunk, and I get very, very stupid when I'm drunk.

Did she, um…how much did she tell you? I mean, about the end of the party. Did we…

Oh, thank God.

But please, kill me.

**1:07pm**

KELLY KAPOOR: _(subject is crying) _I'm sorry to do this to you guys, but I just…there's really no one else here I can talk to. I mean, Pam's all wrapped up in her wedding, and Jim's all wrapped up in _Pam, _and Toby has a No Love-Life Discussion rule that he won't break for _anything_. I've tried. He won't even talk about _other _people's love lives, so when Brad and Jennifer broke up, it was horrible.

Anyway, do you know what Ryan just told me? I've been trying to talk to him _all day_, but he's been holed up in Michael's office. I finally caught him in the kitchen alone for a moment, just to, you know, thank him for inviting me to the party, and he just looked at me and said, "No, I didn't."

So I just stared at him, all, "Uh, yes, you did. I was there. I met Steve. We made out on your couch."

And you know what he says? "You and Steve?"

Me and_ Steve? Steve!_

So I said, "No, silly"—thinking he was teasing me, you know—"me and you."

And he just gave me this look like, _in your dreams_, and said, "I don't remember that. Sorry. You must be mistaken."

He…he…we spend this wonderful night together, and he doesn't even remember! Or, well, part of a night. _Still_.

Jerk.

**2:14pm**

RYAN HOWARD: Of course, I remember she was there. But there's no way I'm admitting it to her.

Oh, that? I asked Michael for any advice he has on business management. It's like having hot needles stuck under your fingernails, but Kelly is Chinese water torture. I'd rather deal with intense but temporary pain than slowly be driven mad by her incessant dripping.

You know, I don't feel so hot. I think I'm going to go home.

And stay there. Forever.

**2:49pm**

KELLY KAPOOR: Have you guys seen Ryan?

He's sick? Oh….

Should I take him some soup?

* * *

End

* * *

Usual disclaimers apply. 


	8. That Point: Meredith

**That Point**

She gets the papers at work while Craig is on a two-week business trip.

Pam drops a small stack of mail on her desk as she does her rounds. Meredith flips through them—a Harry & David catalog, a notice about Dunder Mifflin benefits, and a manila envelope from Harris, Meyers, and Banks, attorneys at law.

Meredith slits the envelope open with a mixture of confusion and curiosity and pulls out the surprisingly thick stack of pages inside. It takes several minutes of staring and reading the same words over and over before she realizes what they mean.

Jim gives her an odd look as she rushes past his desk, fumbling for her keys. Pam opens her mouth, but before she can ask what's wrong, Meredith's out the door and slamming her palm against the elevator button. It doesn't arrive fast enough, so she rams the bar of the stairwell door with her hip and runs down the stairs as quickly as she can in her clogs.

Craig wants a divorce.

* * *

Meredith parks her car in front of the school. It's 2:08, and she spends the next fifty-seven minutes with her cell phone to her ear, listening to Craig ignore her. 

His phone buzzes again and again, until the school doors open and children in brightly-colored backpacks race onto the lawn. She tosses the phone onto the floor of the passenger seat without bothering to end the call, then opens the door and climbs out. She tries not to grit her teeth.

Wendy appears first, red ponytail streaming behind her as she leaps down the stairs, her hands holding tightly to the straps of her Blue's Clues backpack. She skids to a halt at the sidewalk, scanning the pick-up zone, then sees Meredith.

"Mommy!" she squeals, and Meredith holds up both hands in a _stop _gesture so Wendy won't dash into the street. She crosses the road, and Wendy throws herself at her mother, wrapping her arms around Meredith's waist. Meredith closes her eyes and gives her daughter a quick hug.

"Where's Jakey?" she asks.

Wendy shrugs. "Dunno. He's slow. Why are you here?"

Meredith smiles. "Today is special."

Jake appears beside them, frowning, his hair in his eyes. "What're you doing here?" he asks.

"Today's special!" Wendy cries. "Can we have ice cream?" She looks up at Meredith.

Meredith smoothes the top of Wendy's ponytail. "Of course."

* * *

She doesn't tell them. 

The next morning she makes their lunch—actual sandwiches and handfuls of pretzels in baggies instead of the usual Lunchable she tosses into their lunchboxes. Jake asks for Cheetos instead of pretzels, and she lets him have them. He squints at her, then shrugs and hollers, "Shotgun!" before Wendy has finished tying her shoes.

* * *

Craig comes home. The kids mob him, and the usual reunion wrestling match ensues. He doesn't speak to Meredith until the kids are in bed and she's cornered him in the kitchen, the papers in her hand. 

He sighs. "Not now, Mer, okay? I just got home."

She smacks him with the papers. He jerks backward, more surprised then hurt. "You've been ignoring me for three days! You can't just mail me divorce papers and then refuse to talk about it! Don't I get any say in this?"

Craig rubs his forehead and leans against the wall by the fridge. "We passed that point."

"When?"

He pushes past her.

"Hey!" she yells, following him and shoving her body into the bedroom doorway so he can't shut her out. He tries, but she's never been a delicate girl, and he was never a big guy. After a brief struggle, he gives up and lets her in. He sinks onto the bed and stares at her like she's the one who mailed him divorce papers while in a different city.

Her fist crumples the documents still in her hand, and she throws them at his head. He ducks and blinks at her, waiting.

"What about the kids?" she asks through clenched teeth. "Wendy and Jake?"

"I'm suing for custody of Wendy," he says, and he's so calm she wants to smother him with her pillow. "And I'll win. Since I'm not his father, I won't pursue Jake."

She stares at him. "I meant, when were we going to tell them?"

Craig looks at her, implacable. She sags against the dresser.

"What did you mean, 'we passed that point,'?" she whispers. "When? When did this happen?"

He looks down. "If you have to ask, it just proves it was inevitable."

* * *

She lies on the couch all night, trying figure out if he's right. If it's her fault. 

When the kids get up the next morning, she hasn't decided.

* * *

Three months later, Wendy and Craig are gone. Chicago is both too far away and not far enough. 

Meredith takes Jake to school on her way to work. He is sullen now, more than he used to be, and has stopped calling her 'Mom.' Ten-year-old boys should not be so angry.

She stops the car. "Have a nice day," she says, knowing neither of them will. She waits for him to get out, but he doesn't move.

"Meredith?" he says, twisting the strap of his backpack.

"What, Jake?" She tries not to snap, but she's going to be late.

"Craig asked me if I wanted to live with him and I said no." His words come out in a rush, and as soon as he's done, he scrambles out of the car and runs toward the school building, dodging around a red car.

Meredith stares at her steering wheel, confused and touched. For the first time since she opened that damn manila envelope, she cries.

* * *

end

* * *

**Note: **Written for the **Yankeeficswap** community Christmas ficathon on LiveJournal for **sadielicious**. Prompt was "Meredith before the drinking began." 

Usual disclaimers apply.


	9. His Animal: Pam, Dwight, Jim

**Author's Note: **Written for the **we-take-five** ficathon. Prompt: chimera. Thanks to **avadriel** for the beta.

**Setting:** Season Three, sometime post-The Return.

**Summary:** "Oh, my God! Dwight's kind of my friend!"

* * *

**his animal deserves a lot of lovin'**

Pam heard soft footsteps approaching her desk, and she looked up, her mouth already curving into a smile.

But it wasn't Jim.

"Pam," Dwight said, "I require your assistance."

She sighed. "Not now, Dwight. I'm busy."

"Please?"

She stared at him, waiting for him to go away.

"It's _important_," Dwight said through clenched teeth. His hands danced on the surface of her desk, tapping out a nervous rhythm.

"How important?"

He leaned toward her. "_Very_ important. Life-altering."

Pam glanced around the office, but everyone seemed absorbed in their own projects, and she had resorted to sorting her paperclips by size.

"Sure, Dwight."

* * *

He led her into the conference room, closed the door, and then closed the blinds. 

Pam watched him, a wave of resignation—this is her job; this is her life_—_ creeping through her limbs.

"Sit," Dwight ordered, pointing at a chair. Pam complied. He opened a folder and pulled out a sheet of paper, then slid it across the conference room table toward her.

Pam frowned at the drawing. She turned the page upside-down then back upright. "What is it?" she asked.

"It's a chimera. A mythological creature, part lion, part goat, part snake. A fearsome beast." He paused. "It breathes fire."

Pam picked up the drawing and tilted her head. "Goat? That doesn't sound scary."

Dwight snatched the page from her hands and slammed it back on the table. "It's the Schrute mascot, and I need to get it just right. It's going to be a present for my girlfriend."

Pam covered her laugh by pretending to cough. "Are you sure she's going to want a picture of a lion-goat-snake? I mean. that just doesn't seem like her—uh, like something a girl would like."

"Perhaps not on the surface, but once we add the elfin beauty taming the wild chimera with her soft-yet-stern touch, it will become a symbol of our relationship." He met Pam's wide eyes. "But I wouldn't expect you to understand that."

Pam blinked several times. "'We'?"

Dwight nodded. He waved at the drawing, which looked more like a housecat with hooves than something from mythology. "My physique was made for hunting the forces of evil and is not ideal for an endeavor of this nature." He leaned toward her, far enough that Pam instinctively moved her chair to preserve her personal space. "You're an artist. Michael praises your skill highly. I need you to help me."

Pam lifted the drawing and held it with both hands. "You want me to draw you a chimera being tamed by an elf?"

Dwight nodded.

Pam looked at him, and instead of seeing the overwhelming eccentricities of Dwight K. Schrute, saw a man trying as hard as he could to give the woman he loved something unique and meaningful.

And it wasn't like she had anything better to do.

"When do you need it?" she asked.

"Friday," Dwight said. "Can you downplay the goat?"

* * *

Pam spent the evening looking up pictures of chimeras on Google and sketching various styled creatures in different poses. On a whim, she added leather, batlike wings to a couple. Pleased with the effect, she sketched a human form, hand stretched out to touch the chimera's forehead, on the three best drawings and left them on her kitchen table. 

She arrived at work early the next morning, knowing Dwight would be the only one there. He bent over her drawings, his nose nearly touching the pages, and scrutinized them for several minutes.

"Dwight?"

"Hmm?" He didn't look up.

"What do you think?"

He slowly raised his head, blinked twice, and said, "They're amazing. Look—" He stabbed a finger at the second drawing. "—this one has a Schrute chin!"

Pam smiled. "I like that one best."

"Me, too."

And then Dwight smiled at her.

* * *

"What are you working on?" Jim asked. 

Pam jumped, her pencil making a dark line through elfin woman's stomach. She hadn't heard him approach.

She looked up into his smile, surprised that she could tell it wasn't quite right.

"Oh, it's nothing," she said, sliding the paper into her lap. "Just keeping busy."

His smile widened imperceptibly, became more real. "Aw, come on, Pam. Let me see. You know I love your work."

His words, their casualness, took away her voice. She was suddenly aware of the suspicious gaze of Karen and the panicked gaze of Dwight, and felt a deep, familiar exhaustion pull at her bones. She was tired of the back and forth, the uncertainty. Never knowing where she stood with him from day to day, or where he stood with her.

Six months ago, she'd have pulled Jim aside at her first chance to show him Dwight's twisted idea of an anniversary present. But now…

Jim's face changed, the smile twisting, and she realized she was shaking her head.

The phone rang.

"I should get that," she said.

He flinched, recognizing her dismissal.

Pam answered the phone.

* * *

The next morning she showed Dwight the nearly-finished drawing. 

"If you want to change anything, tell me now, so I can fix it tonight before I frame it."

The chimera, wings spread, serpent tail lashing, bowed its head to the petite elfin woman, who rested her hand on its forehead. She looked remarkably like Angela.

For a moment, Dwight glanced from the paper to Pam's face, eyes wide. She watched his face as he sorted through his options—pretend he hadn't noticed, deny the relationship, demand she change it—then straighten.

"So you know, then."

She nodded.

"How long?"

"Oh, not long," she lied. "And don't worry—I haven't told anyone."

Dwight squinted at her. "Not even Jim?"

Pam shook her head, trying to ignore Dwight's look of surprise.

"Well," he said. "Good." He hesitated. "How did you find out?"

Her hand crept up to her necklace. "Um, it's my job to observe everything that goes on in the office."

Dwight looked appalled. "We were that obvious?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. It took me ages to put it together. It wasn't until you came back that I knew for sure." She bit her lip.

Dwight looked down. "Yes. A moment of weakness." He eyed her. "I'm impressed, Pam. I hadn't realized that demure exterior hid such a keen intellect."

She blinked. "Uh, thanks, Dwight."

He nodded. "You're very good at your job. And at this."

They stood in silence together for a moment, Pam's fingers entangled in her necklace.

"Well," she said, reaching for the drawing with her free hand. "The others will be here soon. I should—"

"As recompense, of course, I am willing to offer up any of my legendary Schrute skills: combat techniques, gardening, uh, advice on inter-gender relationships, car maintenance…"

Pam held up a hand. "Advice on what?"

Dwight's eyes roamed her face. "It's just…you were crying that day, and…Angela enjoyed getting coffee with you a few weeks ago. She'd be willing to partake in such an outing again." He shifted his weight. "Perhaps a woman would be easier to confide in."

Pam swallowed, stricken by the horror of confiding anything to Angela and strangely touched that Dwight was concerned enough to offer. "I—thanks, Dwight. I'll keep that in mind."

"No problem, Pam." He laid a hand on her shoulder.

She looked at it in surprise, then at him, and he cleared his throat and took a step back. She immediately felt guilty.

"Can you add a little more bow to the chimera's neck?" he asked. "A hint of subjugation to its proud Schrute chin?"

Her smile came easier than she expected. "Sure, Dwight."

* * *

Jim caught her by the vending machine later that afternoon. 

"Please tell me you and Dwight didn't sneak off to have lunch together," he said, shuffling the quarters in his hand like poker chips.

Pam bent to retrieve her Cherry Nibs and straightened, meeting Jim's carefully hooded gaze. She'd gone with Dwight to pick out a frame for the drawing, something that complemented both the medium and the owners.

"Maybe," she said, daring him. "Why?"

"Well, because…it's _Dwight_. Why would you possibly want to hang out with Dwight?"

She plucked at the package, testing it for the weak spot that would allow her to open it without spraying tiny pieces of licorice around the room. "I'm helping him with a project. A present for his girlfriend."

Jim snorted, relaxed, and dropped his quarters into the soda machine. "Right. His imaginary girlfriend."

With a satisfying mini-explosion of noise, Pam opened her Nibs. "He really does have one. They're pretty serious."

Jim looked at her, his mouth crooking in that familiar way. "Pam. Come on. Dwight has a girlfriend? Do you have proof? Have you met her?"

She popped a Nib in her mouth and chewed, eyeing him. "No," she said. "I don't know who she is."

He didn't look like he believed her. "Well, then, what's the project?"

Pam shook her head and shrugged. "I should probably get back."

"Hey, wait."

She paused by the door, half-turned to look at him over her shoulder.

"I just—I was thinking it was time to pull another prank on Dwight." He gripped his unopened soda. "Maybe something with a beet-ravaging plague or convincing him that Creed is the Grim Reaper." He tried on a smile, but it didn't seem to fit.

Pam looked at her hands, her fingers smudged with pencil lead and ink.

"No, thanks," she said.

She left without waiting for a response.

* * *

**end  
**

* * *

Usual disclaimers apply: Not mine. 


	10. Dr Horrible's SingAlong Job

**Summary: **Andy quits Dunder Mifflin. Dr. Horrible takes his job.

**Set: **Season 5

**Rating: **PG

**Notes:** Thanks to** londondrowning **for the utterly genius prompt.

**

* * *

Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Sales Job**

Dwight stood just inside the office kitchen, watching the new guy through the window blinds. He was skinny, which made him look tall, and had squinty little eyes and a shifty demeanor. Angela said he looked boyish and harmless, but Dwight knew better.

He'd celebrated Andy's departure as a triumphant alpha male should—with body paint, a bonfire, and the ritual roasting of beets—but his replacement was turning out to be an even greater challenge.

The new guy—_Billy_, as he claimed to be called—looked very familiar.

He was also evil. Dwight could sense it. The entire branch—the entire _company—_was at risk.

Billy looked up from his computer, and Dwight ducked behind the kitchen door, making use of his superior stealth skills. He counted to ten and slowly stood.

Billy was looking right at him.

Dwight dropped to the floor and swore, then low-crawled toward the break room. If he could get to the annex, he could reach the hallway and the emergency stairway—

The kitchen door opened.

Dwight froze, then launched himself into a set of frenzied push-ups. "One hundred ninety-seven, one hundred ninety-nine, two hundred." He stood, stretching, and turned, feigning surprise to see another person in the kitchen. "Oh! I'm sorry. I hope my display of masculine prowess didn't intimidate you."

Billy stood at the sink, casually filling a glass with water. "You skipped one hundred ninety-eight," he said.

Dwight blinked. "I always skip it. It's an unlucky number."

"Really?" Billy took a sip of water, watching Dwight over the rim of his glass. Direct eye contact. Very antagonistic. "I've never heard that."

"It's an old Amish tradition."

"Right." Another slow, mocking sip of water. "So you really did two hundred push-ups in the minute you were in here?"

"It's my preferred way to spend my breaks, to keep myself sharp. A purple belt is always in training."

"Purple. Nice. I bet that goes with everything."

Dwight narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Yes, it does," he said, speaking slowly. "Like violence. And mayhem." He thought a moment. "And _death_."

Billy took a step back; the first of Dwight's many victories. "Right. Um, I'm gonna go do some work. Good luck with the…death."

As the gawkish evildoer turned to go, Dwight decided to press his advantage. "So…follow any good blogs on the internet? I've got some suggestions if you don't."

Billy turned, something decidedly un-boyish in his squinty, evil eyes. "Oh, yeah? Like what?"

Dwight reminded himself that he had the upper hand in this confrontation. "There's one I particularly enjoy, by this completely useless, inept super villain, Dr. Horrible. Heard of it?"

For 3.45 seconds, Billy stared at Dwight without responding. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. An _evil _smirk.

"Nope," Billy said brightly. "Never heard of it." He turned and left the kitchen.

After precisely two and a half minutes of consideration – all that remained of his break – Dwight declared the encounter a tie.

* * *

Billy sat at his desk, wondering if leaving his official ELE membership card in plain view the next time Dwight walked past his desk was too obvious.

He was supposed to ascertaining whether or not Ryan Howard was someone the ELE should consider recruiting for the new Evil Education Program, or EEP. After his meteoric rise and ingenious fraud scheme, the temp certainly had possibilities. Billy's job was to determine just how deep his evil streak ran.

Except this Dwight character was so fascinating – and distracting. Billy had never met someone so functionally delusional. He'd worried, at first, if Dwight recognizing him would threaten his cover, but soon realized no one took Dwight seriously – especially the police. After that, it just became fun.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dwight easing toward the kitchen door. He fingered the membership card in his lap, the slid it back into his pocket. Maybe later.

Dwight exited the kitchen, hugging the conference room wall to put as much distance between himself and Billy as possible while he crab-stepped toward his desk. Billy watched him in an intimidating manner, a look he'd perfected since Dr. Horrible's stardom, and hummed the "Imperial March."

Phyllis and Stanley didn't look up. They hadn't seemed to notice any of Dwight's antics – years working here had probably taught them to tune him out, the way you tuned out a neighbor's music. The other salesman, though, Jim, watched the interactions between Dwight and Billy with more attention than Billy found strictly comfortable.

As Dwight threw himself into his chair and hunched over his keyboard, Billy caught Jim's eye. He looked quickly back at his computer, pretending to work.

Out here in po-dunk Scranton, he wasn't as well-known as he was back home, but every day he was here increased his risk of discovery. He wasn't too worried about being captured or exposing his alias. Dr. Horrible could blast his way out of any trouble, laughing evilly all the while. Billy always kept a miniaturized Destructo-Ray in his jacket pocket, disguised as a flashlight. And then there was the memory-erasing smoke bomb encased in a box of Tic-Tacs to protect his alias.

So he wasn't worried about being caught. He didn't want to be found out, because he didn't want to go home yet.

He was enjoying his vacation from evil doing. Being Bad was exhausting. Moist had urged him to volunteer for the reconnaissance trip, saying that just being Billy for a week or two might be good for him. Billy had resisted at first, but the idea had grown on him. The dreams weren't going away, and getting out of the city – where everything reminded him of _her _– might be good for him.

So he came. The ELE pulled some strings, and Billy became a paper salesman.

The Temp didn't seem too evil, but already Dwight was worth the trip in sheer entertainment value alone. Billy wondered if he could throw together a werewolf hologram overnight. Tomorrow was the full moon.

"Hey."

Billy jumped, both knees hitting the underside of his desk. "Oww…dy. Howdy. Hi. Jim, right?"

"Yeah." Jim stood next to his desk, eyeing him with something like admiration, and Billy started to feel uncomfortable. It reminded him of that time he'd wandered into a gay bar by mistake in grad school.

"Hey, can I talk to you?" Jim asked.

Billy nodded before he could stop himself. "Sure. Yeah, sure. About what?"

"Let's get a soda," Jim suggested, taking a couple steps toward the kitchen.

"I don't really drink soda…"

"But you haven't had your afternoon break yet, right? So let's go." Something in Jim's voice wouldn't be disobeyed.

"Yeah. Okay," Billy muttered, standing and following.

The break room door had barely shut behind them before Jim rounded on him.

"What's your secret?"

"What?" Billy yelped, backing into the door and making the blinds shake. "What secret? No secret!"

"You've been here two days," Jim said, "and already Dwight is convinced you're a super villain. I've worked with Dwight for years, and the most I've accomplished is convincing him I was turning into a vampire."

Billy relaxed and forced a smile through his heart rate. "A vampire? That's pretty good."

"There was a bat in the office. I had no choice."

Billy chuckled. "If he stumbles across me in the restroom or back here, he usually shouts something in German and runs."

"Amish curses." Jim dropped some coins into the vending machine.

Billy slid his hands into his pockets and moved a few steps into the room. "The Amish have curses?"

Jim snorted and snapped open his Dr. Pepper. "He tried to call the police on you yesterday, and this morning he tried to recruit me to be his sidekick. Which means he's desperate already." He took a sip, then grinned. "I want in."

"In?"

"I could accept his offer, become his sidekick, then feed him information on you, convince him to set up elaborate traps."

"And then turn on him and join forces with me?"

Jim's grin widened. "Obviously. It could quite possibly provide our entertainment for the next two months."

Billy smiled back. "Just what I need."

"Awesome." Jim's smile turned wistful. "I wish Pam were here. She's pretty great at this stuff."

"Pam?" Billy leaned against a table.

Jim propped himself up against the vending machine. "My fiancée. She's in New York for an art internship."

"Cool," Billy said. "About the art. And that you have her. I…don't. I did, kind of. Well, not really, but she was so… But I don't now. Not anymore." He swallowed and made himself stop talking.

Things were quiet for a few seconds, and then Jim said, "Yeah, I – uh – kinda know what you mean."

He couldn't, of course, not really, but Billy could see he knew _something_, and maybe that was enough.

"Wanna get a beer tonight, discuss our strategy?" Jim asked.

Billy exhaled, feeling his body sag. "Yeah."

The rest of the day went by quickly. Jim convinced Dwight that Billy could read minds, and Dwight spent the rest of the afternoon with his head wrapped in aluminum foil.

Billy smiled as he drove to Poor Richard's. Scranton was going to be good for him.

* * *

End.

* * *

**Usual disclaimers apply**: Not mine. Non-profit organization.


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